


15. Seeking Solace

by ayas3ri



Series: 100 Themes Challenge [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Dreams, F/M, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Longing, Loss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:15:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24181933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayas3ri/pseuds/ayas3ri
Summary: Once upon a time, Geralt had a lover he could come home too. Now, he remembers them fondly.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Reader, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & You, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/You
Series: 100 Themes Challenge [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1745314
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	15. Seeking Solace

**Tired.**

Tired of running. Tired of searching. Tired of fighting. The witcher—scourge of society—finally exhausted his feelings. He wasn’t supposed to, trained as he was to be neutral. To don’t take things at heart. To not get attached. To not care—to not _feel_ anything. Mercy. Anger.

**_Love._ **

The witcher is not as he is supposed— _raised—_ to be. So what? He can break stereotypes as long as he still kills monsters. He can ignore japes and insults like he usually does while still not blaming them for the prejudice. He can be just and have a heart while slashing his sword back and forth, killing without remorse. _As long as he fills the void inside his heart. So long as he feeds the gnawing hole that wants to make his life meaningful..._

A long time ago, he would’ve been more than happy to be on the road. To go from place to place, searching for jobs—and searching for a part of him that was missing. He wanted to escape the Wild Hunt, Yennefer’s possessiveness, Triss and her lies, Dandelion’s songs, or reunite with the only person he’d tolerate any time of the day: Ciri. The witcher doesn’t know anymore; he saved the world, in the end. And along the way, on this life-threatening adventure, he found something else worth fighting for. A figure he had to leave at some point because he had to save them from the monsters that were hunting him. He was in a race against time.

But he was done now. He could go back to a ‘normal’ life, relax—put a break on the world and enjoy a moment of respite. The witcher wanted to hide, close his eyes, and simply _forget_ everyone else existed. He hurries, spurring Roach to exhaustion, for once pleading his mare to forgive him. Lots of oats will await her when he’s done, the witcher promises. Desperation in his mind, his features showing nothing, his heart is racing—as quickly as the wind. He doesn’t stop to eat, to drink, to check out the crimes that are probably happening around him.

He has only a name in mind, repeating it like a prayer. The white-haired male wishes they are fine—no harm done. But in this cruel world, he knows that anything is possible. That his life has always turned to the worst when he was the happiest. He can arrive in the city and found them dead. He can find them captured—or they simply don’t love him any longer.

The possibilities make him shudder with fright; he wants to stop the torrent of thoughts, but they plague him like a curse.

_He gallops like the wind—_

In the end (feels too late), he sees the outskirts of the city. The witcher curses those guards at the gate, feels relief when he’s finally through. He follows familiar roads, cutting corners, passing people—he spots their house, finally. Jumping down, he hastily ties Roach and doesn’t wait to knock on the door. Comes in like a storm, startling them.

**He never dreamed of seeing them again.**

_“Geralt!”_ His name on their lips is like a soothing balm. _“You scared me!”_

But there’s a loving smile on their lips. And, as he falls into their warm embrace, he knows he’s in the right place.

The witcher doesn’t hesitate to kiss their hair, inhaling the fruity scent he surely missed. Despite it all, his heart doesn’t calm until he looks into their eyes, absorbing every feeling reflected there. When they whisper his name gently, he can’t help but attack those lips with his, hunger in his actions. He missed them, more than anything. His body also missed them—and it shows. They know so, giving him a hungry lascivious look through thick eyelashes. Geralt accepts to be led by the hand toward the bedroom, still smelling of their combined natural scents. It turned him on even more, remembering the perfect times the two of them had together.

They purr, _“Missed me?”_ as if they didn’t know. As if they weren’t feeling his eagerness pressed against their leg.

When he’s done, after hours and hours of love-making, it’s already late in the evening. His lover is exhausted, curled up to his side, an arm around his own body. Geralt embraces them, holding them tight, inhaling his scent on them, so reassuring. It’s still arousing, their musk—but they’re already fast asleep, chest rising slowly.

He closes his eyes, finally at ease. His nerves could get a rest and he can forget about the suffering he went through. He’s warm, he’s comfortable—nothing could pry them from his loving arms. He even feels like he can finally sleep. He welcomes the feeling, glad to be able to let his body rest. The witcher doesn’t know when he drifts into slumber, but he soon wakes from their soft kisses on his rough cheeks. His eyes flutter open—and meets their shining bright eyes and sleepy smile.

 _“Morning already?”_ he grumbles, stretching his back like a cat. _“Let’s go back to sleep.”_

They open their mouth, their lips move, and he expects to feel their soft, warm voice to ring in his ears. He hears nothing in return. Maybe they were just playing a joke on him. A trick. But, as he gazes at them, he notices there’s something wrong: their features...

It’s not like he remembers. Not the soft lips or skin, not the eyes, now turning violent. A coldness creeps up his spine—the wind. He doesn’t remember opening the windows. However, he knows better than this: a slithering realization slowly dawns on him. And the witcher’s heart breaks again—for the millionth time.

 _“No,”_ he mouths, voice lost in the torrent of the storm that’s happening all around him all of a sudden. He can’t hear their reply, that smile still on their face. But their facial features are distorted, shaping into something else—he doesn’t remember them being this way. However, despite all his confusion and fright, he remembers the person who was now standing in his lover’s bed, long, dark hair spilling over the fluffy pillow.

_Another familiar voice..._

_Yennefer._ Was he plaguing his dreams again? Before they’re gone, before he’s going to lose them _again,_ he calls out, desperate.

 _“Come back.”_ He’s unsure, though, whether it’s Yennefer’s voice or his.

Their eyes turn a shade of violet—and he doesn’t want to forget. But, no matter how hard he concentrated, he couldn’t find their face again.

“Come, Geralt...”

He felt himself slipping, everything turning dark around him. The witcher was waking up. He doesn’t want to—reality is too disappointing, and he doesn’t want to face the truth. The truth that his lover was long gone, the result of an unhappy accident. **It was his fault.** And he can’t forget. He doesn’t want to say ‘I love you’ to a shadow, but he mouths them anyway.

Words have a strong power.

For a second, they’re back to their normal self, the huge bright smile he adored reminding him of better times. He read their lips, whispering the same vows. His heart fills with warmth again—he just wants to succumb to the feeling, to get lost in their embrace.

“Geralt!”

With a gasp, he opens his eyes, meeting pretty violet ones. Once upon a time, he would’ve loved to see those eyes every day he woke up. Once upon a time, he loved the sorceress. Maybe he still does now—he promised her that, whether she believed it or not. Sometimes, the witcher thinks she _knows._ Even if he doesn’t like it and told her so a thousand times, she still reads his mind. And, whether or not he thinks about it, their name will inevitably pop up. Yennefer says nothing about it.

Should he be grateful? Right now— **no.** He was angry she woke him up. Pulled him out from his sweet dream. He wanted to get lost. Nothing else mattered.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she says defensively, trying to sound angry when she was startled by his reaction. He doesn’t respond, growling as he stands up. Yennefer seated herself away from his reach, frowning as if it was his fault.

He says nothing, avoiding her gaze, bitter about it all. He feeds the fire, aware of the night and swamp sounds around them, the whinnying of restless horses. On the road again, as usual—the only thing he ever wanted was settling down in the house of his dreams.

With his lover. With Yennefer.

_Why did it matter what he wanted? Destiny is always fucking with him._

“You were hurting, Geralt.” Yennefer tries to explain herself, filling in his sulky silence. “Tossing in the sleep. Crying out.” She sounded hurt.

“Do you think I'd let you do that for the whole night?”

Geralt doesn’t respond. She goes on, losing hope.  
“You **_seek solace_** in dreams, Geralt. Don’t hope.” Yennefer casts her eyes downwards, sadness lingering in her features—a thing that he misses entirely.

“They’re long gone.”

The witcher knows that better than anyone. His love got lost because of him—and he feels guilty about it every day. Even if his feelings got dulled to numb pain, he swore he’ll never forget the face of the person who once made him happy. The one he’d promise his future and couldn’t fulfill it. He’ll never forgive himself.

Geralt, witcher with feelings, is **tired.**  
But he’ll go on—it's what they’d want to.

“Geralt...” he feels Yennefer’s warm palm on his shoulder and, this time, he doesn’t push her away. He needs consolation, even if it’s with another person. He turns around, capturing her soft lips with his, hungry, hoping the sorceress wasn’t reading his thoughts, for once. He’ll hurt her—because, even if he doesn’t say it, he can deceive himself that he’s kissing someone else.

The witcher still dreams—and will continue to do so.  
It’s inevitable.


End file.
